Entreat
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: Sebastian loves to make his master beg. -Post season II. SebaCiel-


**Disclaimer: **NoOoOoOoOoO. Desu.

**Author's Note: **In thanks for turning "Anatomy Lessons" into an unbelievably delicious doujinshi, I asked Neneko if she had any fic requests. This is the result of her request… though I admit her prompt is only a small portion of it. Eh heh. I'm sorry. I tried. orz And I hope you enjoy it anyway, 'cause this is all for you, sweetheart~ (Muffins and love forever!)

**Warnings: **Follows the end of season II. SebaCiel. (Moe-ish Ciel?) More blood!pr0n, which quickly seems to be becoming a theme in my newer fics. I think it may be time to start worrying about my mental state…

**XXX**

**Entreat**

**XXX**

Sebastian loves to make his master _beg._

The futile struggle for power, once almost-even but now evermore tipped in the not-boy's favor, has left the elder demon with precious few opportunities to do so. And it is a pity, for there is nothing quite as rewarding as watching his little lord regress— pretty, regal features contorting in need and want and desire as crystalline saliva seeps from the gaping corners of his candy-scented mouth, and mismatched eyes glaze and cloud and he moans and whimpers and sobs and _oh… _

It was so much fun to make him plead as a human, and the chances to do so were virtually endless: when tangled in kidnappers' ribbons and ropes— when he dared not _think _before uttering some senseless command— when unbound and unfettered and bare atop rumpled, sweat-stained sheets. Sebastian must admit, he will miss those pleasant days.

But even as he laments, the devil realizes that all is not lost. The cravings of one form have not so much vanished as been distorted, and some bodily yearnings never go away…

"Sebastian… Sebastian, give it to me," Ciel demands, tugging plaintively at the excess fabric of his caretaker's shadowy coattails. The demonling has been looking unusually gaunt, as of late— the skin above his cheekbones bruised and his wobbly knees weak. The fist around his butler's garments is just as much for balance as it is for garnering the other's attention. "I want it. Now."

"You know I cannot do that, my lord," Sebastian returns coolly, and it takes a great deal of effort to quash the sadistic smirk that aches to make a fissure of his mouth. "However will you learn to be independent if I eternally treat you as a baby bird?"

"_Sebastian…!_" It is almost a _whine_; immature, pleading, bleating. And the sheer _desperateness_ that lurks in the undertow of Ciel's tone, the wavering and warbling that serenades the angry bite of lacquered nails, fills the butler's blackened insides with an inappropriate warmth, even as he shakes his head no.

"You must at least _try_, young master," Sebastian commands, running his own ebony talons through the hoary down of the fledgling's hair. The gesture seems to pacify, but Ciel (pressed flush against the curve of his elder's hip and stomach) continues to wear his most petulant (precious) pout—and the demon would have it no other way. "I have everything prepared for you. You see?"

He lifts his free hand—the one that is not resting atop the once-child's feathery crown— and gestures to a nearby corpse, some pert Parisian slut. The whore's overly-rouged features are contorted like a work of modern art, her expression of alarm far more inventive than any painting in the nearby Louvre. Bulging, glass-green eyes watch the loitering devils sightlessly, upside-down beneath a sky of cobbled sidewalk.

Ciel squirms, visibly revolted, and half-hides behind Sebastian; his grip on his clothing tightens in apprehension. It is almost adorable in its uncouthness. But the demonling can't clutch at Sebastian's apron strings forever… especially now that he no longer wears such foppery.

"Come now," the butler encourages, giving the small of the babe's back a pointed nudge. "It is exactly what I would be feeding you. It is simply still in its unattractive wrapper."

"But—!"

"Go on."

The pin-thin heels of leather bootlings clatter against the alleyway stone; Ciel shoots his companion an absolutely _furious_ glower as he steadies himself, wobbling in the wake of the push-stumble-step. (Inside of Sebastian, the liquid heat spreads.) And then those sometimes-blue eyes flick forward, falling upon the cooling corpse of the young female lying in a heap of curls and pearls.

His delicate fingers clench, fist wracked with tremors as his expression wavers between loathing and longing, hatred and hunger.

"Whatever are you waiting for?" the butler wheedles from the sidelines, head cocked in faint amusement as his little lord grows more and more agitated. Bitty feet stamp-stamp-stamp in frustration as an empty stomach rumbles, and Ciel inadvertently releases an incensed, lengthy keen. "There is no need to be shy, young master. You act as if this is the first time you have supped on a body."

The petite monster snarls. "Because it _is!"_

"Of course it isn't," Sebastian calmly corrects, ever-patient, as he takes the three-stride journey to his tremulous master's side. One lithe arm wraps around a shuddering shoulder, and the other trails an alluring path down the flat of the boy's pale belly, teasing the gap of flesh that peaks between shirt and shorts. "You have always lived in a man-eat-man world, my lord, even as a human. Surely you haven't forgotten…?"

An alabaster face scrunches in obvious distaste, even as cobalt irises slowly bleed scarlet.

"You're speaking in metaphors and demanding the literal," Ciel complains in a whisper. A whisper that— at any other point in time— would have thoroughly mortified him. But even as he gripes, the scent of the deceased woman is tickling at his overly sensitive nose, teasing his senses and whetting his appetite. He can smell a soul in there, like a ripe and juicy fruit, just waiting to be plucked…

"Who said I was being figurative?" the other murmurs in reply, a lilted voice in the little one's rosy ear. Sultry and sinful, so experienced at seducing… "Humans are just as much a part of the ecosystem as anything else. Bodies rot, my lord. Flesh decays. And in the ground— even as we speak— a countless number of forgotten cadavers are moldering into fertilizer, which then nourishes the plants that grow and are eaten by animals… and on and on, until those animals are consumed by others. You're doing nothing strange, my lord. You're simply skipping a step or two in the natural process. But that is your right, in this form."

The limbs disentangle themselves from the fledgling, who is now breathing heavily, pupils waning into slits as sharp as his claws. Whatever mortal reason might have remained in Ciel's brain is quickly losing out to need and hunger, ivory incisors sharpening as legs give way beneath him, energy sapped from so many days of starvation…

"That's it. There's a good boy…"

And even before the demonling seems wholly conscious of his actions, his porcelain hands are flying— ripping and shredding and digging and scooping and blood is splattering against the greasy brick walls in charming floral patterns, bile and sewage seeping into the grating of the street. One stripped breast arcs to the left; the other dangles limply on shorn threads of tissue, undulating idly as feverish little hands rummage through the cherry-red insides of the corpse's gutted chest.

"Yes, just like that. That's the ticket."

Swollen intestines squelch and slide, slipping one atop the other as they fall into glistening piles on the walkway. Overly-eager talons accidentally pop the balloon of the belly; Ciel whimpers again (water welling in his eyes, rolling over in bubbled beads that burst against unrecognizable organs) as the remnants of the prostitute's last supper contaminates his own meal. He only-just manages to salvage her heart before stomach acid adds too much spice for his liking… and while he rips into the meat with uninhibited vigor, he knows that it is not enough— not what he really wants.

"Sebastian…" the tiny demon sniffles, even as he gnaws and gulps and chews forlornly, face and hands a sopping crimson mess. "Sebastian, where is it…? I'm still so _hungry_—!"

And for a moment, Sebastian plays with the idea of telling his master the full truth— that this pitiable poppet had been dead for hours; that the shinigami had already made off with her spirit; that what the fledgling had _thought_ he'd sensed had been nothing more than a memory and a lingering perfume—a distinction that he would learn to make, in time.

But if he does that, he knows, Ciel's wretched, dismal, pathetic pout will morph into something far less beautiful— vindictive scowls and shrieks of rage, contemptuous sulks and vengeance-via-orders. And while those are all enjoyable emotions in their own right, there are so few opportunities to make him _beg_ anymore.

So…

"I am afraid it must have escaped, my lord," Sebastian says sadly, looking very sympathetic indeed. He shakes his downcast head in a lamenting sort of way, tongue cluck-clucking as his master's throws the loveliest little tantrum, tossing whatever meager bits of nutrition he still held in his grasp violently aside.

"_Sebastian—!_" Ciel hiccups, and he is so very, very ravenous that he has long since swallowed his pride; he sits in his oozing pile of ruined leftovers, fluid-stained hands pressed against his bleary eyes, and weeps pearly crocodile tears as his butler offers soothing endearments, joining his charge in the malodorous evisceration.

"Oh, there there," Sebastian softly purrs, running affectionate hands through the fledgling's now-matted locks. He truly is an infant, the pretty gossamer thing. "Shhh, calm down, now… You will be alright. I will not let you starve."

His miserable master snivels in return, allowing himself to be petted and played with as pink-stained dewdrops drip down his lily-white face. His patience— neigh, _willingness_— to be toyed with further amuses the elder devil; he shows his pleasure by tenderly tilting his tamer's trembling chin, smoothing spidery fingers over his salt-sticky cheeks.

"You did extremely well for your first time. I am so very proud of you," Sebastian whispers sweetly, consoling as he smiles. But though the grin itself is gentle, the half-lidded gaze that accompanies it is devious with promise; it is an expression that Ciel instantly recognizes, and his own eyes widen in Pavlovian hope, petal lips parting and fragile neck straining, stretching, reaching… "Now, does my baby bird want dessert?"

The little one nods, too famished to speak, but does emit a squeal of irritation when the chuckling devil teases him just a bit longer—dodging and dipping around the mouth that so fervently seeks his own.

"_Sebast—! _Ah…!"

A heady groan, hoarse with gratitude; ruby-dyed hands lift and coil, leaving saccharine streaks of raspberry jam in clumps of raven hair. Lissom legs part instinctively, spreading wide as if to welcome the butler closer, closer… closer still, whether the demon likes it or not, for now Ciel is clinging to his throat, and his slight weight is pulling him down, down, down…

"Mmm, settle yourself, my lord…" Sebastian murmurs, even as his young master continues to kiss him— tongue poking, lips pressing, hands scrabbling in impatience against his servant's back when he's denied his meal, if but for an instant. "I am not going anywhere. If you eat too fast, you will make yourself sick…"

The warning goes unheeded; as soon as his caretaker has _shut up_, Ciel returns to his nursing— mouths merging and tongues tangling as Sebastian shares with him his essence, allowing the babe to suck-slurp-swallow down the coagulated energies of a hundred-million previously consumed souls. And just like the noble he'd once-been, the demonling is happy to gorge himself silly— spread thighs quivering with delight as he finally breaks away, gasping and contented and eyes a luminous shade of vermillion.

Sebastian watches the satisfied child fall back against the browning gore with a muted chortle, delighting in the lazy, gratified flutter of his butterfly lashes. And though his lord's body is already a shivering mess, the elder devil is always happy to exacerbate a situation. Knees still spread, balancing expertly on one prone palm, Sebastian remains arched above his sated master, depravity glittering in his ruddy irises.

"My my, but aren't _you_ the messy eater…" he teases in a breath, using his free hand to gingerly lift his tamer's wrist. In the gloom of the setting sun, the remnants of liquid entrails gleam like a sugared gloss, like a coat of strawberry jelly. "My lord must really be more careful. Cleanliness is next to godliness, as they say…"

It is a horrible joke—for many, many reasons— and were he not so distracted, Ciel probably would have berated him for it. But as it is, the boy's only response is a raspy moan… for, as a servant of Phantomhive, it is only _natural _that Sebastian clean his master whenever he's dirtied himself. And, should no worn cloth or warm water be available, a moistened tongue can easily be made into a suitable substitute. At least, the demonling seems to have no qualms against it; instead, he watches his butler beneath the fringe of his bangs, lips pursed against a growing groan as Sebastian nibbles the print-swirled pads of bloodied fingers, tongue peeping out to sweep a taunting trail from knuckle to nail, tickling beneath the skin of manicured talons…

"You know, baby bird," Sebastian says as he does so, voice low and lush and mischievously conversational, even as his ethereal stare shimmers with its own brand of hunger. He kisses the tip of a crooked, elegant pinkie, then moves to suckle on a quavering ring finger— gradually sheathing the digit in hot, tight wetness. "There is more than one way to feast upon a body…"

And though Ciel has already made a glutton of himself, he can feel his own appetite returning— pretty, regal features contorting in need and want and desire as crystalline saliva seeps from the gaping corners of his candy-scented mouth… and as Sebastian devours lips and neck and chest and hip and other tasty morsels, those mismatched eyes glaze and cloud and the fledgling _moans_ and whimpers and sobs and _oh— _

"_Sebast… nn…! More…!_"

And ah, _yes_—he does so _love_ to make his master beg.

**XXX**


End file.
